A Proposition
For All Nails #138G: A Proposition by President Chester A. Arthur ---- :Angel Island, California :The docks :6 June 1949 :2200 hours "You take good care of the town, Danny." Sheriff Walker Bush paused for a moment and gripped his deputy's elbow. Escobar had offered to take them both along to hunt the shark, but Ortega had to stay; he was popular in the town and Rodriguiz would need civilian help in tracking down the terroristas that had done so much harm in just a few days, and besides he was missing a hand and had been an army man. Bush had been a navy man, had steered a liferaft for over a hundred miles on the sea, and besides had dealt with a shark before. Oh, yes, he thought with an icy shudder that had nothing to do with the cool summer night. "I ... I know she'll be in good hands." "Si, well, euh ... " Ortega was silent for a moment, keenly aware of the patrol launch's crew watching them. He suddenly grinned and clapped his boss on the shoulder. "You'd better come back soon, Walker, or this town will be jodido beyond all recognition. You know what stupid huevóns all these Mexicanos are ... " Bush stared at his Mexicano deputy for a long moment before bursting out in laughter and clapping him on the back. "All right, Danny ... I'll be back." He turned and walked toward the boat, suddenly realizing that for the first time since coming to the island, he was sorry to leave it. ---- :Somewhere in the Gulf of California :7 June 1949 :800 hours "You've got a good crew on the island, Sheriff." Bush looked up from the chum line, his hands still methodically tossing the dead and mutilated whitefish into the sea, his hands sloppy with blood and organs. It was good work, mechanical work, that let him forget the disaster he'd left on the island and the beast somewhere in the water. "Well, er, gracias, Captain." The big shore patrolman was outlined against the morning sun. "You've got a pretty fine crew yourself ... I'm so sorry about your boys two days ago, if I could have ... " Escobar laid his hand on the rail. "Don't give it a moment's thought, Sheriff. Hans and Maurice died in the service of their country, shot by cowardly cabrons in the back. The reckoning will come." Escobar's hand tightened on the rail, his wristwatch, stamped with the hammer and sickle of the city of Viva, glittering in the sun. Bush's smooth rhythm faltered for just a moment. "I'm sure it will. Any sign of ... the shark?" His hands slowly got back in time. "No, the damn audar's FN1 on the fritz again, so we're down to hunting for aletas and his sendero. You and our dead fish friends here are the best hope we've got, until the audar starts up again." "You can count on me, Captain. I'll catch the enemy." ---- :2000 hours It can't be possible. It was a measure of Bush's emotional state that his suspicions penetrated through the layers of fatigue brought on by 6 hours of running a chum line and 6 hours of lookout duty. His arms hurt. His legs hurt. His eyes hurt. His skin, especially his hands, was a sea of zinc oxide, slime, fish blood, and sunburn. He barely recognized himself in the head's small mirror as he wiped himself off with recycled seawater. He was aboard a shore patrol ship of the United States of Mexico, surrounded by fellow veterans. And yet. Escobar's watch. The black "tattooing" spread up the gunner's forearms. And that nail, that single carpenter's nail wedged into the faux planks of the boat's lounge/bunk room's card table. There were a thousand explanations for each, but one pattern, one pattern that glowed in his mind with an intensity brighter than a tracer shell. But why? ---- :2100 hours "Pregunta, Sheriff." Bush hoped his caution wasn't too obvious. "Que?" "Política. Do you care?" "Of course." Bush shrugged. "If you're asking what party I belong to ... I don't know. My father backs Silva, so I suppose I do the same out of loyalty. Why?" "Oh, bueno, bueno ... " Captain Escobar pushed his drink back and forth along the lounge's table, the smell of it reaching Bush three feet away. Men of his father's generation had told him that Mexican beer had improved immensely since the cultural alliance with the Germans of a decade earlier. It must have been el pinche madre ... Bush thought with some horror. "I only ask you, Sheriff, because I am curious. As I said, I don't only hunt the tiburon that swim in the sea, I hunt the ones that walk on land." Escobar looked at Bush. "You know that there are those who would bring down President Silva and all that we have accomplished; those who would turn the war we still may yet win into a disaster beyond disaster against the norteamericanos." "Oh, si." The boat grew silent, outside of the snores of sleeping crewmen and the splashing of waves. "I like to think I have played some role in defeating those cabrons, Sheriff, some role in protecting peace and order in this nation. You're a hero of the war and a hero of the peace, and we may need good men like you in the years to come." He raised a hand. "I make no offers, Sheriff, no promises, only ... I ask that you think. When we have killed the beast, we can discuss this better. Will you think, Sheriff?" "Oh, yes." ---- :8 June 1949 :800 hours The shark's teeth snapped shut bare inches from Sheriff Bush's outstretched hand ... ---- Forward to FAN #138H (9 June 1949): Anti-Climax. Return to For All Nails. Category:Walker Bush